


Golden Boys

by HessianLikeTheBoot



Category: Golden Girls, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fluff, Gen, Golden Girls AU, M/M, Teen Wolf, Teen Wolf AU, Thank You For Being A Friend, golden girls - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HessianLikeTheBoot/pseuds/HessianLikeTheBoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen Wolf/Golden Girls fusion. </p><p>Stiles is Dorothy, Jackson is Blanche, Scott is Rose, and Derek is Sophia (only he's not the parent of the Stiles/Dorothy character, he's the husband). </p><p>Rev. Mahealani drops by for tea, Jackson channels an array of Tennessee Williams heroines, Derek desperately wants to win a bake-off against his rival St. Pierre, Scott finds himself traumatized by St. Olaf memories, and Stiles makes the whole thing hang together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Boys

FADE IN:

INT: Living room, day; everything is pastel-toned, and the lighting is supremely flattering.

REVEREND MAHEALANI (mid-20s, buff, dimpled) (setting down his tea) : Well, Scott, that's an interesting question --

SCOTT (mid-50s, endlessly adorable) (passionately): Because Father Olsen said animals didn't have souls, but when I looked into Henrik's big, soft eyes, I knew that couldn't be true! But it was winter, and my parents said it was time, so my Henrik was made into Litengasdenfokken anyway!

JACKSON (mid-50s, handsome, extraordinarily well-preserved) (toying with his shirt button): Scott, honey, winters were pretty harsh in St. Olaf, if y'all were hungry -- 

SCOTT: We didn't _eat_ Henrik, he was like a member of the family!

STILES (mid-50s, striking, aging like Kevin freaking Bacon): Henrik was a dog?

SCOTT: Oh, no, that was Mr. Tiddles.

JACKSON: A cat?

SCOTT: No, our cats were Gunilla, Gunther, Greta, Gustave, and Mariposa.

REV. MAHEALANI: Fish?

SCOTT: What? No, fish are for eating. St. Olaf has sixteen lakes.

STILES (smiling pleasantly at the Reverend): Scott, was kind of animal was Henrik?

SCOTT: Oh, gosh, he was just the best goose ever! Except, he broke my brother Sven's arm once. Well, twice. And Hildy needed stitches that time. And everyone within 20 miles of the farm complained about the incessant honking. But he was just majestic!

STILES: And what's -- what's Litengasdenfokken, if it's not a food?

SCOTT: Oh! It's a board game. None of you grew up playing Litengasdenfokken?

Everyone else shakes his head.

SCOTT: Oh, it's great fun during those long winter nights by the fire. You move your pieces around the board, trying to collect different properties and utilities and things, and you do your best not to end up in jail!

REV. MAHEALANI (encouragingly): So, like Monopoly?

SCOTT (laughing): Nothing like Monopoly! 

STILES: Scott, what you're describing with the pieces, and different properties, sounds an awful lot like Monopoly.

SCOTT: No, no, I've played Monopoly, they're nothing alike. In Litengasdenfokken the game pieces are little metal wedges of different kinds of cheese, for example. The properties are tracts of farmland, or timber lots, or iron mines. And if you land on one of the lakes, you'd better hope it's frozen over! "Jail" means the public stocks, and the other players can draw cards and pelt you with turnips or cow patties.

STILES: I feel we're getting off track. What about Henrik?

SCOTT: Yes, you need goose fat to waterproof the game board.

STILES: The -- the game board.

SCOTT: Yes.

JACKSON: This game you played on long winter nights.

SCOTT: Yes.

(STILES and JACKSON exchange a speaking look; JACKSON has undone yet another button on his shirt.)

DEREK (60ish, relentlessly stunning, can you imagine what it'll be like, _ungh_ ) enters.

DEREK: Hello, Stiles. Hello, Scott. Hello, Jackson. Hello, Jackson's new boyfriend.

JACKSON (flustered): Derek! My goodness. This is Reverend Daniel Mahealani, from the mission downtown. 

REV. MAHEALANI: Oh, you're Stiles' husband, nice to meet you!

SCOTT (thinks he's whispering): Since he had that stroke a couple of years ago, Derek's kind of --

DEREK: ... developed superhearing.

DEREK shakes the REVEREND's hand, walks over, sits on the armrest of STILES' chair.

DEREK: Nice to meet you, too. Mahealani, that's a Hawaiian name?

REV. MAHEALANI: Yes, yes it is.

JACKSON (dreamily): My daddy had a worker one summer who was of Hawaiian extraction. Good lord, he was a handsome man. We would take long drives on those sultry nights... he taught me a little Hawaiian. 

DEREK: Languages can be transmitted via bodily fluids?

SCOTT and JACKSON: DEREK!

STILES (sighing): More tea, Reverend?

=LATER=

INT: Living room, 4 a.m. the following morning.

SCOTT, JACKSON, and STILES enter wearing pajamas.

JACKSON: What are you two doing up?

STILES: Looking for Derek, I rolled over and his side of the bed was empty.

SCOTT: I was having nightmares about Henrik! The eyes. The EYES!

STILES: Why're you awake, Jackson?

JACKSON (shiftily): I had some things to do.

They walk into the kitchen.

INT: Kitchen, with piles of messy pots, open cabinets, and many splatters. DEREK is at the stove.

STILES: Derek, what's going on?!

DEREK: There's a bake-off at the senior center on Saturday. St. Pierre thinks his éclairs can beat my cannoli, but he's the mayor of Wrongsville, just up the road from Not-a-chance-in-Hell.

SCOTT: Who would live there?

STILES: D., anyone could beat your cannoli, it's terrible. You gave up on trying to improve it, and on baking in general, twenty years ago.

JACKSON: Also, it smells like chili in here.

JACKSON, STILES, and SCOTT sit at the table.

SCOTT: Oh, good, I thought it was just me.

DEREK: It smells like chili because it is chili. 

STILES: ...for the bake-off.

DEREK: Exactly.

STILES (pinching the bridge of his nose): Start over.

DEREK (stirring maniacally): I've got it all worked out. I trade Lahey this chili for his pot roast, which Greenberg can't resist, and Greenberg comes across with cupcakes, which Finstock can't resist, and Finstock gives up his cannoli, which won the Clarion's blue ribbon home baker award six years ago. It's foolproof.

JACKSON: And you have this vendetta against St. Pierre because?

DEREK: He hogs the pool table. He's lucky to be alive.

SCOTT: It's not because he thought Stiles was your son that time?

DEREK (murderous eyebrows): No. 

JACKSON: If he thinks Stiles could be your son, he's probably mistaking me for your grandson. 

STILES: Jackson, don't --

REV. MAHEALANI pokes his head into the kitchen; his clothes from yesterday's tea are decidedly rumpled and he's smiling.

REV. MAHEALANI: Oh, hi, hello. Good morning, that is.

STILES, SCOTT and DEREK turn to stare at him.

JACKSON (purring): Good mornin' Daniel.

REV. MAHEALANI: Jackson, I do need to go, I have meetings this morning. But... you have my number.

JACKSON (winking): I certainly do, darlin'.

REV. MAHEALANI exits.

STILES, SCOTT and DEREK turn to stare at JACKSON.

JACKSON: What? We're both consenting adults. 

DEREK: You have enough consent for two or three adults.

STILES: You're awake because you had _things to do_.

JACKSON: Practice makes perfect, though I will say he did not have far to go.

STILES: Please don't say.

DEREK: How's your Hawaiian?

JACKSON: Coming along nicely, thanks for asking, Gramps.

SCOTT (wailing): WE PLAYED INDOORS.

STILES: And there it is.

SCOTT: Why -- why would -- _waterproofing_ , of all the -- 

STILES: Oh, Scott.

JACKSON: Scott, honey.

STILES and JACKSON reach out to take SCOTT's hands.

DEREK (sprinkling spices into a huge pot): What's he upset about?

STILES: Litengasdenfokken.

DEREK: What's a litengas?

STILES: I'm beginning to think it's Midwestern slang for "inconvenient gander."

JACKSON: Scott, let's go sit on the sofa, you can tell me Henrik stories.

SCOTT: All of them?

JACKSON: Let's be realistic. But, I especially want to hear about Sven's busted arm.

SCOTT: He had to give up playing the triangle in the St. Olaf chamber music society.

STILES: St. Olaf had a chamber group that featured a _triangle_? My god, what am I saying, of course it did. The break was so bad Sven had to give up his professional aspirations?

SCOTT: No, Henrik's attacks happened while Sven was practicing, and my brother said it was just too upsetting to keep on, too many bad memories. Anyway, I think he was jealous.

JACKSON: Henrik?

SCOTT: Sven, he was trying to drown out the honking.

DEREK (reluctantly drawn in): With a triangle?

SCOTT: Oh, it wasn't just any old triangle, it was the big brass memorial triangle in St. Olaf's town square. 

JACKSON: How big is big?

SCOTT: Seven feet by seven feet by... (pauses, considering)

STILES, JACKSON, and DEREK: Seven feet?

SCOTT: Yes! How did you know?

JACKSON: And it's a memorial?

SCOTT (nodding): You see, back in the early 1900s, an itinerant music teacher came to town, a wonderful man named Professor Harold Hi -- 

STILES (exasperatedly): Go inside! I mean... I'll make coffee, you two should go inside and sit down, you've both had long nights.

JACKSON: Stiles, remind me to tell you about --

STILES: GO.

SCOTT and JACKSON exit the kitchen, STILES heads to the coffee machine.

STILES: One of these days we need to visit St. Olaf. Maybe with a documentary crew.

DEREK: We'll go on the second or third day of its week-long summer.

STILES: Yeah, why do Scott's stories always take place in winter?

DEREK: Because St. Olaf's is probably a mental hospital, and all he remembers is a sea of clinical white. Either that, or it's a wintry Brigadoon.

STILES: Your nefarious scheme sure to work? Finstock's cannoli going to do the job? I've got a few bakery phone numbers up my sleeve, and no love lost for St. Pierre.

DEREK: This isn't my first time at this rodeo. I might also be sabotaging the piping bag for his ridiculously showy "finishing touch" maneuver with the crème pâtissière.

STILES: I love you, D.

DEREK: I love you too, pussycat. Now get out of my kitchen, you're bad luck.

STILES: Bad luck! How can you say that?

DEREK: Don't you remember why I gave up baking?

STILES: How is that -- oh.

DEREK: Yeah, oh.

STILES: It was an accident... a few accidents. But, so worth it.

DEREK (kissing him): Agreed. But you're entirely too distracting. So get out.

STILES puts the coffee mugs on a tray.

JACKSON (bursting back into the kitchen, wild-eyed): What is taking so long?! 

STILES: What's wrong?

JACKSON: Wrong?! Sven is 6'9" at age eleven, and it's been snowing for ten months, and the band uniforms are all too small, and I suspect Henrik may have been responsible for a few unsolved murders around town, and Scott just went to fetch a pillow that still has his feathers in it. I do not want THAT THING in my HOUSE.

DEREK: How about I put this chili on a back burner, and make Belgian waffles?

JACKSON: Not French toast?

DEREK (sharply): Nothing French until after the bake-off. 

JACKSON (wheedling): But --

STILES: Don't press.

JACKSON (musing): I always thought that St. Pierre was kinda cute.

DEREK: You would.

  
END OF ACT ONE

  


**Author's Note:**

> This work originally appeared on my [tumblr](http://hessianliketheboot.tumblr.com/post/76420221282/today-in-aus-im-not-writing).


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